


To give a hand

by Plume_Sombre



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Conqueror of Shamballa, Family, Gen, Pre-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 21:50:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6583891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plume_Sombre/pseuds/Plume_Sombre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ed tries to reject his father's help, but maybe that's not the right decision to make. / pre-movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To give a hand

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> This OS has been sitting on my computer since November so I suppose I should post it. We don't really know how much time passed between the transmutation and the moment when Ed leaves for Romania, but it seemed to be enough for him and Hohenheim to settle into a rather quiet trust. I really wish they showed us more family bonding in CoS. ;v;
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

 

Ed stifles another groan as he tries to tie his hair in a ponytail that won't result in the loss of half his hair. More often than not, his right prosthetic arm gets stuck in his blond locks, and when he manages to retrieve it he always finds some loose hair stuck on it. It's already bad enough that this prosthesis sucks—he doesn't have the mobility and the swiftness of automail, it's stiff and there are fuckings straps all over his shoulders and collarbones that make him feel trapped. The Gate wanted to fuck with him one more time and ripped his limbs again; but this time he doesn't have the genius of Rockbell mechanics at hand so he has to put up with this... shit.

Ed gives up, throws the hairtie in the sink and scowls. So much for that. He grabs the comb and flattens his hair, getting rid of the knots that poked their heads out in the process of hair tying, and lets it down. Fuck it, it's not like he's going out—the wind won't blind him with his bangs and he won't run, so sweat isn't likely to stick his hair on his neck.

“Edward? Are you still in the bathroom?”

Ed rolls his eyes and gets out, coming face to face with Hohenheim who looks somewhat concerned and curious, which is a combination that usually doesn't end in something other than 'hypocrisy' in Ed's mind.

“What do you want?” he grumbles.

Hohenheim slightly raises an eyebrow, ever so discreet at showing his emotions.

“I thought I could help you, if you want,” he answers sincerely.

“I don't want help, especially not _yours_ ,” Ed spits back.

But the usual sharpness and outright disgust seem to be lacking a bit, just enough to get noticed by both men, and Ed scowls even deeper as he passes by his father. Hohenheim simply sighs and rubs his neck, quite at a loss of what to do to make this—this _family_ thing work.

It has been four months since Ed arrived in this world, in Germany, living with Hohenheim and having to depend on him because he doesn't know jackshit about whatever he's seeing, hearing and reading. Four months that he spent isolated from people and direct light of sun to study, to memorize the language, to learn the basic history of the country in order to know at least what to expect if he said anything that could offend someone and get him into trouble; he doesn't have the title of State Alchemist or the People's Alchemist or _alchemy_ at all to protect him anymore. He learnt through the hard way that people in this world are probably even more close-minded than in Amestris, and yes punching someone with a freshly installed prosthesis equates to immediate proclamation of _insolent brat_ and _monster_ and _I'm just saying what I'm seeing_ and _do you want to tarnish your father's reputation?_ because fucking hell, Hohenheim is a known professor at a prestigious university or whatever. Ed couldn't care less about reputation but neighbours tend to be very troublesome and nosy, so he'll keep it down just to avoid unwanted attention.

Ed hates this world. He hates the dull colors, he hates the stares he gets, he hates the stinking misery that floats in the atmosphere, he hates being thrown in a universe that isn't his, he hates everything. But what he probably hates above all is not knowing what happened to Al; every day he tries to reassure himself that his transmutation must have worked if he passed through the Gate; sometimes his more rational and pessimistic side tells him that he got nothing in exchange for his sacrifice, because he asked for too much and his worthless, already tainted body couldn't pay the price. Sunny and rainy days constantly alternate in his mind, giving him headaches that waste his time and energy.

And living with Hohenheim is something so weird and so unconceivable that he doesn't know how to act. The man has been absent from his life for thirteen fucking years and he's expected to act like a normal son to a normal father? What the heck. It's as if someone asked him to follow orders or to dutifully obey Mustang's command; both are things that can't be done and never will, because Ed has principles and a temper that makes him _him._ He's not some malleable doll who is given directions and expectations that are followed without questions.

This is the core of the problem; questions. Ed can't stop asking questions—why did he end up here, why did he lose his limbs again, why couldn't he see if Al was okay, why is alchemy unusable here, how can he survive in a hostile world, what can he do, what does the Gate want? So many questions, so few answers, and even less trust. There is no friend or ally here, Ed can't read these people because he doesn't know them; he doesn't know what they think when he doesn't understand this world. Hohenheim tries to give him warnings and advice about certain types of people, but it's hardly useful if he doesn't so much as step outside of the building of their apartment.

Right now he's reading a book in German (four months are enough to learn most of the language and maybe a bit more) about sciences and the progress in physics, and the stuff he discovers doesn't make sense at all, but for having experienced the crash of a flying machine he can't denigrate this world's scientific reasearch. They can build this kind of oversized machines, but no automails? They have to get their priorities straight, damn it.

Ed pauses in his reading as a thought occurs to him. To study space, people are trying to go there with rockets, machines that are supposed to have a powerful propulsion engine to make them go _woosh_ into the air. His mind is racing; he ponders on the outcomes, weighs the pros and cons, asks himself if this is a safe decision—but nothing has been safe since he was eleven, and what wrong can be done? In his crazy mind, he can only see the positive points, because he's just that—desperate. Desperate to see his brother, to watch vivid colors swirl before his eyes, to clap his hands and create—desperate to feel alive again.

He shuts the book and sets it beside him on the couch. Hohenheim is sitting at the table scribbling down notes of whatever project he's working on, and Ed speaks just loud enough to startle him.

“I want to study rocketry.”

The scratching sound stops as soon as the last word is dropped, and Hohenheim slowly raises his head from his papers to look at Ed. He looks mildly alarmed, maybe scared, but he doesn't say anything that would hint at it.

“Why rocketry, if I may ask?” he says.

“Rockets fly into space, right?” Ed shrugs. “Maybe that will help us getting back into our world.”

“Back to Alphonse.”

Ed picks up his book again.

“Back to Al,” he repeats.

Hohenheim puts down his pencil and folds his hands on his stomach. His eyes are full of kindness, of longing perhaps, but also of a sadness that seems to have been there for too long and unable to leave.

“Edward, rocketry might not be the solution,” he whispers.

“Better that than doing nothing,” Ed grunts. “I feel I'll go insane if I don't move or if I don't use my brain for something other than learning a language. Rocketry's the closest to anything helpful.”

It's true, Hohenheim knows Ed's right, but he can't help feeling unsettled and worried. Ed's sixteen, almost seventeen, he can go to university with his skills, but how will he adapt? How will people accept someone who is missing an arm and a leg? There are all kinds of people, and students are the most unpredictable; he doesn't want his son to get hurt. Four years of suffering is enough—and it even goes further back, back to the day they attempted human transmutation, back to the day Trisha died, back to the day he left. Maybe it's too late to try protecting his family, but Hohenheim can't sit idle when he has the opportunity to act.

“Alright,” he says. “I can get you a place in the university I teach at. This will hardly be a problem.”

“Don't want to get your help, I said,” Ed scowls, eyes leaving the book to glare at his father.

“Just let me do this, Edward. Moreover, I doubt that any other university will let you enroll without a proper history of education. You may be a genius, it will still be suspicious if you are not careful.”

“The problem remains even in the university you're teaching at.”

Hohenheim smiles.

“Well, I do not want to brag, but my reputation will allow me this... particularity. I can always say you are into research and need more concrete knowledge by debating with other skillful students.”

Ed groans and buries his head in his hands. He can't not accept this offer, because even though it kills him to admit it, Hohenheim is right and it will be... _childish_ to stay that stubborn. But Ed isn't a child, has never been one from starters, and he can't afford an opportunity like this one to pass right under his nose. He throws up his hands in the air with defeat.

“Okay, okay, do whatever you want,” he mutters.

“Good,” Hohenheim says. “In the meantime I think I have something that will please you.”

He holds up the papers he is working on, and Ed's eyes widen. Even from this distance he can easily recognize diagrams, sketches and notes that don't look alchemical at all; he has actually never seen the blueprints because he was always in a rush whenever he visited and he had other things in mind to pay attention to how it worked.

But he will recognize the sketches of automails among thousands of sketches because these metal limbs have been and are still part of his being, integrated to his body and carved in his mind. His mouth goes dry and he can't exactly find the words he wants to utter.

“Are... Are they your own?”

“I am trying to remember what Pinako told me about automails, but of course my blueprints are far from the real thing,” Hohenheim replies, a hint of satisfaction hanging at his lips. “I will need some more time to build them, but I can assure you that these will be much better than your current prostheses. I do not want to disparage anyone's work, though.”

Ed scoffs but he can't stop the smirk from spreading on his face.

“Show me what you've got, Dad.”

Because living for four months with someone is also enough to get to know them, enough to make Ed realize that maybe this isn't all that bad, that Hohenheim is trying and that he shouldn't be bitter for eternity. He understands now the reasons his father had for leaving, even though he doesn't totally forgive him, but it's a step and letting Hohenheim take care of him is the next one.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Also yes, I'm part of the people who consider that Amestrian is a language and that Ed had trouble communicating after landing into our world.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedbacks appreciated :D


End file.
